


The Name

by AuthorReinvented



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Britain, Fairy, Magic, fae, faerie - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-23
Updated: 2020-06-23
Packaged: 2021-03-04 04:20:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,295
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24877600
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AuthorReinvented/pseuds/AuthorReinvented
Summary: "Can I have your name?"There's a million things wrong with that question in this situation.A Fae unwittingly approaches England in the woods, foolishly thinking to take his name. England isn't afraid.
Kudos: 37





	The Name

"Can I have your name?"

There are a million things wrong with that question in this situation. The dapperly dressed man is a little too small -not short- but small, both in build and height. His face is too mature for a child's face, too sharp and angular, but his eyes are just a little bit too large for his face, the picture of innocence, a shade of brown that isn't usually seen on a regular person, too washed out, almost grey, matching the the bark on the nearby chestnut tree.

It's not just his looks that are suspicious, but his location. A well-dressed gentleman in the streets is nothing, it's ordinary. A well-dressed man in the middle of the forest is dangerous. More than that, he looks like he just stepped out of a circle of toadstools that wasn't there a moment ago, and the hollow caused by the footprints isnt quite the shape of a normal person's foot. Beyond the strangeness of wearing a suit without shoes, the footprints look strangely four-toed, missing a digit, and stranger still, there's no other footprints to ever indicate he stepped into the circle of mushrooms, or even came from anywhere in particular. It seems, to all appearances, as though this man only popped into existence a moment ago.

The most suspicious thing about the Fae -for it is a fae- is the way he holds his hand out as he asks the question. Not in the way one might offer to shake, but as though he's expecting something to be passed to him. To an ordinary human, this is dangerous. To refuse to give a Fae your name risks upsetting them. To give your name is to lose something that means more than just a label. To a normal person, they are only one step from destruction. To the blond-haired, bushy eye-browed englishman sipping his tea atop a rather mossy tree stump, this is child's play.

There are a million ways for him to avoid danger, to out-trick the trickster, to overpower the magic. Because the man the Fae unwittingly approached is no regular man. Though he looks to be in his mid to late 20's, his clear green eyes betray more years than they should hold. His body, neither toned nor built with muscle, could no sooner be moved from that stump against his will than a child could topple an oak tree. His bushy brows, drawn together ever so slightly at the sight of the Fae, give him the look of a petulant child whose playtime had been interrupted, and doesn't show the extent of his fortitude.

To the Fae, he looks like easy picking. The magical being reaches for the requested power, he smiles politely through his teeth, though his eyes smirk, as he askes for the man's name, believing him to be a fool, having every confidence the man will give it to him. The man is not a fool, he knows all too well what the Fae is thinking, he knows many ways to avoid giving the answer. But avoidance is showing weakness, and the man doesn't like be looked down on. He sips his tea and let's the question hang on the air between them for a beat too long, awkwardly, then, just and the Fae starts to lower his hand, the man responds. 

"You don't know me?" 

It's the last bit of proffered niceties, a single chance for the Fae to back down, a chance for it to escape, to realize his mistakes. The Fae is too young. Too eager. 

"I'm afraid not." 

The Fae shakes his head. 

"Can I have your name?" 

There were a millions things wrong with that question in this situation. The neatly dressed gentleman was a bit too calm for the sudden appearance of the Fae, his eyes a bit too sharp, taking in too much. His posture was still and unflinching, his pinky never wavering from its outstretched position to balance the man's teacup, his handsom black shoes remained loosely crossed at the ankles, as though the Fae was only a visitor to his tea party, the picture of an English gentleman. 

It's not just his looks that are suspicious, but his location. A well-dressed gentleman in the streets is only ordinary. A well-dressed man in the middle of the forest is dangerous. More than that, he is sipping tea from a delicate china cup whilst sitting on a mossy stump as though its a throne. It's not unusual for an Englishman to drink tea, rather it would be stranger if he didn't, but it's almost malicious to find a man drinking tea from a teacup in the deepest part of the woods as thought it's normal. 

The most suspicious thing about the gentleman is how he answers. Not an full answer to the question, not truly avoiding it. Not "You don't know me." as a statement, but "You don't know me?" As a question. As though the Fae ought to know him. If the Fae had hesitated, even a little, he might have understood, might have faltered. But greed is and always has been the weakness of the faerie folk, and the Fae reaches out too quickly for a name he doesn't fully understand, he doesn't recognize the implications of it. 

Again, the fae holds out his hand, as though to physically take the name, and with a quiet steadfastness, England gives it to him. Like a fool, the Fae takes it. For a milsecond, the Fae grins in triumph, certain he has won, almost cackling at the power given to him. But, quickly, oh so quickly, the greedy eyes turn fearful, and the Fae turns to the man sitting calmly on the stump with a newfound respect, and above that, fear.

For the name the man gave, only a single word, is not just his name, but many. It's the name of the elderly woman who goes to bingo every night, of the child that is learning to bake from their dad, of the manager of the local corner-store, the famous actress that starred in the latest movie, the homeless man down the street, and even the name of royalty herself. Not one name, but a collection of names of all the people in a country, of pets, plants, places and things, buildings and governments, the air and the ground, all disguised under a single word, enough to crush much more than a forest full of brownies and pixies and fae and fairies could ever hold. 

The single word is enough to make the fae plead that the gentleman take it back, crushed under the power he desired so much only moments ago, and, almost disappointedly, the man takes it back. The fae disappears almost instantly, stripping into the ring of mushrooms and vanishing, as though scared the man will make him take the name back if he stays too long, casting one last fear-filled glance at the man, still sipping his tea. The man is left alone, surrounded by the trees that seem to whisper the echoes of the great name spoken only moments ago. 

The man finishes his cup of tea, and turns the cup into leaves with a snap of his fingers, then he too, steps into the faerie circle and disappears from the forest. Waiting for him, just outside the trees, is another being like him, one that can calmly the name that would crush thousands of fae with only the utterance, a person who isn't affected by the weight at all, equally as strong. As the man watches, the waiting being raises an arm and calls out the name, echoing across in the field, spilling over the forrest. 

"England!" 

Deep inside the forest, a fae shivers.


End file.
